


The Chapel in the Sun

by Reynier



Category: Arthurian Literature - Fandom, Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Fae & Fairies, Gen, L'Atre Périlleux, POV Outsider, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24095842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reynier/pseuds/Reynier
Summary: Espinogres is out for revenge.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 15
Collections: Arthurian_Server_Squad





	The Chapel in the Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BedazzledChocolate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BedazzledChocolate/gifts).



> ok so this is literally just building off of l'atre, which says that gawain is half fae. plus ell2's headcanons anyway here u go i hope you enjoy

Espinogres had made several mistakes in his life. Judging by his current circumstances, the first was being born at all, but other errors had certainly occurred along the way. Many of them, as it turned out, were directly related to Sir Gawain of the Round Table. Some of them had been minor social errors, like bragging about finding another woman, which had simply resulted in getting cuffed around the ear a bit and sent on his way. To a smart man, this might have been a sufficient hint that Sir Gawain was not to be crossed.

Espinogres was not a smart man. 

But he was cunning, in a base and mean-spirited kind of way, and the thing about cunning people who are not very intelligent is that they forget others can be more cunning by far. They plaster on a smarmy smile and laugh at the placid people who believe the best in others. To the cunning and stupid optimism is a personality flaw; to the cunning and intelligent it is the noblest thing in the world. And some people are very good indeed at pretending to be noble. 

“You will watch yourself,” Sir Gawain had said, that fateful day when Espinogres had met him on the road. “You will watch yourself and you will do better. Do you swear?”

“Yes,” Espinogre had said, “I swear.” He hadn’t believed it even when he first said it. Sir Gawain had embarrassed him in front of that polite young gentleman, the one with the sharp eyes who watched everything. Somehow that was worse than the judgement of a knight of the Round Table-- the judgement of a nobody. So Espinogres had vowed that day: _I will be your worst enemy._

And it had come to this. 

He had chosen a chapel because it seemed fitting. God judged everything, they said. Well, that was fine, Espinogres didn’t believe in God. It had not been hard to split the hunting party. He had done his research; he knew that Sir Gawain would always follow a white hart. There was a heady dose of satisfaction in watching him stumble through the woods, lost, looking for a creature that didn’t exist. 

(Magic was cheap to come by these days, but it never lasted.)

The man who found him waiting at the little chapel in the woods did not look anything like the nameless man he’d met on the road and later discovered to be Sir Gawain. Where before his hair had been wild and untamed, now it was elegantly slicked back. Where that man had looked like no one, this man could never be mistaken for anything other than one of the foremost knights of the realm. And where never once before had he looked anything but grave-faced and serious, this man was smiling: wide and carefree, as though the fact that he’d chased a disappearing hart into the forest and was now miles from the rest of the hunting party was of little concern to him.

“Are you lost, good Sir Knight?” said Espinogres, when he had dismounted and paused to survey the chapel. It was a simple affair in white marble with an altar in the center and ledges running along the walls. “Can I help you?”

“I was chasing a hart,” said Sir Gawain. “But it’s gone now. Are you the altar keeper?”

Espinogres snorted. “No,” he said, “I’m just passing through.”

“Do you have lunch to spare with a friend?” “A friend?” He quirked up the corner of his mouth. “Always.” He had a satchel with some cold venison wrapped in grape leaves, and he rooted around in it. In front of him, Sir Gawain dropped down to the cold marble floor and sat cross-legged, disregarding propriety. Espinogres matched him. “Your horse,” he pointed out, “is not secured.”

“Oh, he won’t leave,” said Sir Gawain. “What brings you here? Are you a knight?”

Espinogres was a knight of the Round Table, in fact, although he accepted that he had been somewhat errant in his duties. Still, this was an insult. “I am Sir Espinogres of the Round Table,” he said. Perhaps Sir Gawain would remember. It was him who had brought him into the fold, as it were. 

“Oh,” said Sir Gawain. “Are you new?”

“I’ve been here for three years.”

Sir Gawain took a bite of the proffered venison. “That’s nice,” he said.

They sat in muddied silence for several minutes, chewing slowly on venison. To Espinogres’ horror, Sir Gawain ate the grape leaves as well, despite the fact that they weren’t cooked. Finally the tension became too much to bear. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

He didn’t even raise his eyes. “Hm?”

“We’ve met, Sir Gawain.”

“Well,” he said, and finally looked up from the venison, “I’ve met a lot of people, can you provide any specifics?”

Espinogres sighed. The realisation would come, he was sure, and when it did Sir Gawain’s reaction would be something to treasure in times to come. He would be patient, and draw it out. “A road far from here. There was another man, your squire perhaps.”

“I don’t have a squire,” said Sir Gawain easily, “so that doesn’t help me particularly. It does sound like something I would do, though.”

Tilting his head, Espinogres frowned. “What?”

There was a beat. “Oh,” said Sir Gawain, “I’m sorry. What are we talking about, exactly?”

He had been very patient for approximately thirty seconds; he could be patient no longer. “You humiliated me,” he said. The venison was gone now, and the ghostly afternoon light barely trickled through the obscure slants of the chapel. There was no one around. “You asked for my story and when you didn’t like it you beat me to near death.” That was an exaggeration. It hadn’t been very fun, though. 

“And what was your story?” said Sir Gawain. He hadn’t moved from his casual seat on the floor. 

“My drue did not love me, and so I found another.”

“Ah,” said Sir Gawain. “I _do_ remember you, I think. You certainly went to great pains to win a woman you did not love.”

The hypocrisy was violent. “Oh,” snapped Espinogres, rising to a stand. His anger was getting the better of him, he realised, but he made no effort to calm himself. “Because that’s what they call you, certainly. Sir Gawain the Faithful.”

“No,” he said, “mainly they just call me Sir Gawain. The epithets haven’t been needed for a while. As for your friend-- a woman may sin as she pleases in a marriage she didn’t choose. A man has no such luxury.”

“That’s nonsense.” It was odd. The chapel seemed to have gotten slightly smaller, and it was very dark for just past midday. “I am your mortal enemy, Sir Gawain, and you have strayed to this chapel in accordance with my plan.”

Sir Gawain raised his head finally. His eyes were laughing. “And what plan is that?”

“You will fight me,” said Espinogres. His sword was a comforting weight at his hip, and the other knight had left his arms on his horse. “Right now.”

“No, thank you.”

“What?”

“I said, no, thank you. I don’t want to fight you.” He paused, and seemed to choose his next words with care. “I don’t think it would be very interesting.”

He felt his blood churn. He would make Sir Gawain rescind those words if he had to tear them from his bloody mouth. “I’ll show you otherwise,” he said. “I note, good Sir Knight, that you do not carry a sword. Well, I carry one. How’s that for interesting?”

Sir Gawain pursed his lips. “Passable,” he said. “Are you going to do anything with the sword?”

Instead of answering, Espinogres simply unsheathed it. It was a good blade, if a bit stained. He had never seen the point in keeping a sword clean, not when a dirty one said so much. 

“Ha,” said Sir Gawain. He still hadn’t moved, but at least he was looking now. “Well, then, swing at me if you like. But I’ll have you know--”

Espinogres lunged. For all his flaws he was a quick hand and had, for a time, had won much favour in the peripheral courts for his skill with arms. That success had faded when-- well, like so many things, it had faded when he met Sir Gawain. But he could still lunge. 

Ducking in the blink of an eye, Sir Gawain rolled to the side and landed in a crouch. He had no weapons that Espinogres could see, but his expression was still light and unconcerned. “You don’t need to do this,” he remarked. “You can stop anytime you like. I won’t hold a grudge.”

“I will,” said Espinogres, and lunged again to no avail. There was a nasty pounding in his head. This was not going as well as it should. Everything was perfect, the trap had been sprung, and yet there was no fear. It was no satisfaction if there was no fear, no anger. “Are you a coward, then? Fight me!” “I don’t really want to.” Damnably, he had managed to hop onto the ledge behind the altar, slightly out of sword’s reach. He had multiple avenues of escape should Espinogres choose to rush him. “I’m not a coward. I just think you’re boring.”

Espinogres had made a study of this man’s history. It was horribly perfect save for one blotched stain right at the beginning of his time as a knight, and no one seemed to remember that. In fact the only thing anyone ever criticized Sir Gawain for was-- he stopped. Readjusted his grip on his sword. Smiled. “I must have confused you for your brother, then.”

Something changed in the air. The dull fog of the afternoon shifted, and all of a sudden Sir Gawain’s sharp face was illuminated by a single shaft of sunlight shining through the high window. “Do you want to keep talking?” he said. He was so still he might have been made of marble himself. “Do you want to?”

Espinogres wanted to very much. “Which one of them is it who’s the coward?” he said. “I can never remember. “Sir Mordred is the bastard, yes? Sir Gaheris the mindless lackey? Then it must be Sir Aggravaine who’s the coward. Am I more interesting now?”

“Oh, Sir Espinogres,” breathed Sir Gawain, “you are very interesting indeed. Let’s have some fun, shall we?”

There was an edge to his voice which rang dangerous. Espinogres clutched the hilt of his sword more tightly. “I want revenge.”

“That’s cute,” said Sir Gawain, and suddenly he was holding a knife. It was not clear where on his person it had come from, but it was sharp steel and perfectly polished. 

Espinogres had the unwelcoming thought that just because a blade had been cleaned did not mean it was never dirty. He took a few careful steps backwards so that he had the altar between him and the man who seemed to be far more than Sir Gawain, with his sun-burnished curls and dark eyes. “What are you doing?”

“I’m killing you.” His voice was as smiling as his face. “That’s how it works. Has no one told you the rules? You insult my family, I get to kill you. It works very well as a system.” Without warning he hopped neatly from the ledge straight onto the altar and waved his hands. “You hated Sir Gawain? Well, I’m happy to say this is just Gawain. Do you enjoy him? Does he thrill you? Or do you want the mask again?” 

A rush of horror coursing through him, Espinogres stumbled backward. It was as though the late burst of sunlight had brought with it a new man-- not the polite exemplar of chivalry who graced the halls of Camelot, but someone slightly otherworldly. They said that the witch-queen Morgause wasn’t human, Espinogres recalled. Somehow no one had considered what that meant for the children. They also said the sun was his greatest ally, that the sun made him stronger, made him--

\--made him more than human. 

“Too late,” snarled Gawain, and lunged.


End file.
